Dafydd ap Gwilym's Fourth Debate Poem
Gruffudd, word twister, is a crossbow,
and a bow of art, although he has a stutter;
he shoots, he invites pain,
4 every target, not even the Pope has respite,
and barely he strikes one, aloe-red,
he's injured,
only perverting poetry,
8 turning praise into satire for anyone.
If I had no skill at all,
recollection of a woodland tryst, pitiful poem,
it would be less shame to him,
12 to revenge my anger, to support me
than to rebuke me, quick anger,
for my sadness - he deserved my wrath.
If the lad had, smiling scowl,
16 a new honour for composing poetry,
lagging behind again, if I see him,
the novice of love will be sloppy.
If forks are put, not a cowardly weak attack,
20 under the brows of a sickly man,
a tongue can, civilised poetry,
weak chieftain, and a poisoned spear,
cause trouble and anger
24 in his chest, and take away his honours.
It would be easier to fit the black man
as a father to Bleddyn in Gwynedd
than him, sailing the sea,
28 from the land of Anglesey as a father to me.
I'm a truthful man,
who has been with a noblewoman from Anglesey,
and I sired, with the intention of causing devastation,
32 a son with a stammer in a rather bad way:
pale-cheeked Gruffudd,
the spitting image of the dogs, son of Malkin,
servant of lepers from Uwch Conwy,
36 I know, I know, why should I not know who?
Pasty-cheeked Gruffudd should,
tongue tipped with lead,
consider that not even a third of the words
40 come from him without obstruction, the pathetic man,
but a glug glug noise like someone drinking gruel,
or a drunken dog swallowing a crow chick,
a slow howl, but leading
44 a blind man across thistles over there.
It's a tricky thing for a lonely poet
to fight with a strong, indignant man;
he can, the speckled-black quiver,
48 sad-cheeked, have a ox's hornful,
if God does not, he would not commit deception,
make a truce of angry rashness.
Covering of tow, a dark passion,
52 Tudur Goch, give up your poetics.
In Lent, he's famous for his tomfoolery,
the insulting creature, was there ever a worse lip?
Long-standing hatred, the chieftain of fear,
56 goose arse, leave this between me and that man over there.